


The Attempt

by John_Faina



Series: Sherlock's Struggle [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Season/Series 03, Pre-Slash, Slash, mini series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 22:16:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2827994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/John_Faina/pseuds/John_Faina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years after Mary's death, John is living at 221B once more. Sherlock wants him there to stay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Attempt

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first installment in the miniseries. Each part will consist of just a snippet of John's and Sherlock's journey as they navigate their relationship, in bloom during life after Mary and the baby.

John is sitting on the couch reading the day's newspaper, a frown lightly in place, when everything changes.

Sherlock closes John's laptop, and stands. He walks over to him, fiddling absently with the tie of his red satin dressing gown, and slowly sinks down to his knees, kneeling between John's legs, looking up at the wide expanse of newspaper. His own eyes look back at him from the front page.

Blinking, John lowers the paper.

There is an intense sort of gleam. John has never seen a face so intense. And this is not  _I'm-on-a-case_ intense, no--it is something else entirely. His breath catches. He can feel, he can  _sense_ with utter assuredness that something monumental is about to happen. He quietly clears his throat.

Sherlock closes his eyes as if John has done something particularly wonderful or clever. His hands are clasped in his lap and his head is slightly bowed; he could be praying. John sets the newspaper aside.

When Sherlock opens his eyes, he also lifts his hands to his lips in a prayer fashion, then lowers them again, the firm lips trembling.

"Thank you," he manages.

There is so much blue. Moments pass in silence. John swallows. He takes in a shaky breath. Sherlock isn't finished and the delicacy and intensity of the situation is making him feel light-headed.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock says again, just to see if he can, in fact.

Sincerity. "You're welcome," says John. Has he ever said anything to Sherlock that wasn't sincere? he wonders. He wonders what Sherlock is thanking him for.

Sherlock rises up a little. "You're here."

The slight change in posture, the acknowledgement from John, the subtle lighting of the already fire-blue eyes...these are the small clues that tell John his best friend is a train gathering speed. He clenched his jaw, half inside the train, half on the tracks. This is about to happen.

"John,  _you_...are my best friend."

"Yes," John says softly, nodding.

Sherlock wrings his hands in his lap and nods as well. It seems he had been hoping for confirmation that this was still true, for he appears immensely encouraged. So much so, that John leans forward with a small smile, and squeezes his shoulder.

"But I feel I should tell you more."

"More?"

"Quite a lot more, yes."

"OK."

"Well, to begin--"

"Wait." John holds up a hand, taking in Sherlock's nervous expression.

"Yes?"

"Have you got a speech prepared?" John's eyes twinkle.

Sherlock stares at him.

"Seriously, Sherlock, you're kneeling on the floor before me like you're about to ask for my hand in marriage." The words tumble out of his mouth before he knows what he is saying. What the hell is he saying?

"What?" Sherlock asks, tilting his head at him as hurt flashes briefly in his eyes. John mentally straps a bomb to himself.

"Nothing, I'm...being an idiot. Sorry. Go on."

Sherlock's eyes rove over his face, and John can see that he has put the fire out. Barely there. But clearly there. John has come to be able to distinguish the different emotions that Sherlock tries so hard to conceal, and now he almost wishes he hasn't. Except, not knowing is worse than knowing.

"No--" he says, "don't--"

But the world's only consulting detective springs to his feet with a sudden, panicked look in his eye and rushes over to the window to pick up his violin. John follows him. He gently plucks the bow from Sherlock's fingers, forcing him to, in turn, put down the instrument. 

"Turn around, please," he says.

Sherlock doesn't.

"Sherlock," he firmly pleads.

Sherlock does not turn around. So John gets in between him and the window, hands gripping his elbows, and carefully wraps himself around the long body in a hug, his cheek pressed tightly to Sherlock's chest.

"John--"

"I know."

"But--"

"I know."

"But I--"

"I know, though."

"You are infuriating."

Sherlock winds his long arms around him, resting his cheek on top of John's head. Everything has changed. And John is relieved.

 


End file.
